Queensland's turned on a proper summer for our week here - thoroughly sweltery, the sort of weather that springs sweat on you if you even think about doing anything more than languishing on the couch with a good book and a pitcher full of ice - which is just as well, frankly, because everybody's seen fit to remind me that it's going to be freezing beyond the call of duty in Europe. Aunt Jo, in Northamptonshire, inquired in her usual quiet way as to just what the blazes we thought we were doing, coming at this time of year. Mother has taken a vindictive child-like glee in reading out the European weather every morning. ("Ooh, it's a warm one in London today; only getting down to minus 1!")

Thanks.

Our searingly brilliant plans to take Nards and Pops ("I prefer Big Daddy," he says) out to dinner were scuttled by the incipient Guest of Honour (What do you mean I didn't tell you Nardia was pregnant? What do you mean you don't even know who Nardia is? Best friend from high school, 'k?) who was apparently a little impatient to meet us and wanted to get started, five weeks early. But we visited her in hospital, where they were employing stern measures to dissuade early arrivals, and did manage to have a quiet evening in last night, with lots of natter (about porn and comicbooks and other adult topics).

Best donuts in the world still to be had in the Kin Kora mall. Just keeping y'all up-to-date.

So now we're down in Brisbane for Christmas, an event that promises to involve a large influx of hard currency (European, so I guess we have to go now) but not much in the excitement of unwrapping category. I suppose one can't really grumble. Or one might get rotten fruit thrown at one.